


she's homesick

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: Homecoming [5]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Romance, Series, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am yours. Only yours. I miss you every day, Aaron. Every day. I miss you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	she's homesick

The fifth time it happens, she's homesick.

It's a weird feeling that settles over her somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It's been months since she's been stateside, her Thing with Hotch sustained by Skype and phone and some down right raunchy e-mails. It makes her feel a little like a teenager and a lot like she's too old to be maintaining a long-distance relationship.

Except. She doesn't once take steps to change it.

Plus, they've added Jack to the conversations that stay PG. God, she misses him, brutally and terribly. His sweet smile, his adorable round face. He's getting older and there's a part of Emily, while recognizing she's not his parent, that feels like she's missing out on all the major milestones in his life.

So, she boards a plane.

It's a ninety percent impulse decision, actually – so her airfare is actually relatively reasonable – and she doesn't call anyone until she's touched down. She knows the team's at home, knows that they're not away, or at least hopes they haven't been called on an emergency in the last eight hours she's been on the transatlantic flight.

And, like she'd promised too many months ago, her first call is to Hotch.

"Emily."

His voice is low, warm, a key indicator that he's alone. She privately calls the voice hers. "Aaron."

"You sound exhausted, sweetheart."

Definitely alone then. He uses a shocking amount of endearments with her when there's no one around to hear them. At first, it had thrown her off entirely. Now, she gauges his mood by them.

"Just got off a plane."

"Oh?"

She sucks in a deep breath because, well, she could have made a real mistake. "I'm in DC."

"What?"

"I'm in DC," she repeats. "Just deplaned at Dulles."

She likes Dulles better, she'd told him once. Feels like it's more cohesive than Reagan.

"A case?"

"No," she says, and has to breath again. God, this shouldn't be so hard. She should feel welcome, shouldn't she? She already has a warm glow suffusing her chest, a calm settling over a stomach that is often rolling uncomfortably, but there's a distinct tension that keeps her back ramrod straight. "No case."

Sometimes, with all his intelligence, it takes him a few minutes to catch on. "You're visiting."

"Um. Yes. Spur of the moment."

There's silence for a moment, then shuffling. Even so, she holds her breath.

"I'll call you when we get there."

Emily grins like her first crush just promised to carry her books to first period.

* * *

"Why are you here?" he asks, late that night. Jack's been asleep for hours. They'd fooled around like teenagers on the couch, then moved it to the bedroom. She's so glad she knows how to keep quiet.

"I don't know," she says. "I just- got on a plane."

"And we're lucky you landed here?"

He has the oddest secret sense of humour. "Yeah. Something like that."

More like something corny about northern stars and coming home, but she knows that's going to poke into conversations she doesn't want to have. She doesn't want to talk about how London is shockingly unsatisfying. She doesn't want to talk about the fact that she misses her family more than anything. And she definitely doesn't want the always-practical Hotch to tell her to just move back. She's not sure what she'd been looking for when she'd left, but she knows she hasn't found it yet.

His hands are spreading across her body, stroking naked skin and for God's sake, he should not be doing that. She swallows.

"I- I don't know," she says, soft. His hands are moving with purpose now, stroking across her belly button, up under her breasts. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. They  _just_ finished. This is ridiculous. But she can feel her body responding, the way her nipples tighten, the ache that's already starting to settle south of her belly button.

He hums, nudging her. She sits up against him obligingly, gives him more space to play as she spreads her legs just a bit. His fingers trail to her inner thigh. It's gentle, but she shivers, feels the way her skin all but vibrates beneath his touch. It should not be like this. They're adults, honest to God, fully-grown, home-owning adults. Yet here she is, naked in his bed after three separate orgasms on her end, and her body's telling her she could go again.

Jesus, a teenager. She's a freaking teenager. Her hormones must be out of whack. She's half way through wondering where she is in her cycle, if many her hormones really are out of whack, when his fingers brush through the sticky curls at the apex of her thighs. Her breath catches, her head tilts back. His chuckle sounds low in her ear.

"Shit," she breathes.

He hums. "Something missing?"

It takes her a minute to find enough brain cells to speak. "Missing?"

"From your life, Emily."

She shivers again. His voice is low in her ear, a growl as he looks down her body. Shit. He's watching, watching his fingers as they play against her skin, as they slide inwards, opening her up. Her legs widen and he grips one thigh, tugging it up over his. He bends his knee, anchoring her open.

"Oh," she gasps. "Wh-what-  _Aaron_."

His finger's just brushed over her clit and her thoughts scatter. God, he wants her to have a conversation right now? She's kind of busy trying to process what the hell her body is doing. Her hips are moving with his hand, a little fretfully, echoing her thoughts.

"Emily," he rumbles, applies her mouth to her neck. There's a spot just behind her ear that makes her shudder violently, sends her hips pushing into his fingers. There's not a lot of pressure on her clit though, just a gentle stroke, enough to tease. "Is there something missing from your life."

Her hands bunch against his thighs, little crescents showing up where her nails are digging into his skin. He doesn't seem to care, his hips tilting towards her. God, even he should not be ready to go again. It hasn't been long enough for either of them to recover, but she can feel him against her ass. She actually whimpers when her removes his fingers. They return a moment later, after he adjusts her thigh. He's using his legs to keep her butterflied open now, completely exposed. It shouldn't do anything for her, she's too self-conscious, but he has her basically pinned. His mouth is at her ear, his arm around her waist, cupping a breast. His other hand is between her splayed thighs as he plays with her.

"It's good," she manages, honestly not quite sure what she's talking about, his touch or London.

His touch shifts then, demanding. His fingers pinch at her nipple, little shocks, the same time his teeth catch her earlobe. Her breathing hitches, her body shifting. Then he's sliding two well-practiced fingers inside and she clenches on them automatically. She's close, she thinks, his hand pressing against her clit. She could use a little more pressure.

"Everything you want on a whole other continent," he murmurs, voice low and rough. He doesn't move his fingers, doesn't do much more than press gently against her clit. It's a tease, the gentle touch of his palm, the feeling of his fingers inside.

"Aaron," she says. "Aaron, please."

His hand slides down from her breast, clutching at her hip to keep her from thrusting against his fingers. "Do you have friends there?" he asks, his voice suddenly and terrifyingly as if he doesn't have a care in the world. She'd be worried if it weren't for the way his hips are moving against her ass. Tiny, gentle thrusts that tell her he doesn't even know he's doing it.

"What about family?"

God, she doesn't know. She doesn't know much beyond the feeling of his hand. His body's behind her, his mouth against her. Her hips are pushing down on his fingers, trying for more, but he's stronger than her, relentless. He can't actually want her to answer these questions, does he? How the hell is she supposed to think when he's pressing against her so intimately?

"What about me?"

The same time he asks, he shoves his fingers up, pressing inward like he's trying to make a fist. It puts delicious pressure on her clit and she flies apart, biting her lip to muffle the noise. She can't help the pathetic-sounding whimper though as he holds her there, wringing every drop of her climax from her exhausted over-stimulated body.

The room is still a bit blurry when she can open her eyes again and her body is virtually shivering from everything she's put it through in the last few hours. She is wrung out. But not enough for the next thought that slides through her mind.

He's flattened his legs, allowing her freedom of movement again. She turns around, grasping the hand that had been between her thighs just moments ago. He's wiped it off, on the sheets, she guesses, but there are still some slick spots. She slides the first finger into her mouth, cleaning it thoroughly before speaking.

"What about you?"

His eyes are dark and hot on her, watching as she cleans his second finger as thoroughly as the first. It isn't until she's set to work on his palm that he speaks.

"Missing in London."

She stops. Dead. Completely. Her eyes are stunned when they meet his. The last time they'd been together he'd been insistent, possessive. She'd known at the end that this was no longer the stringless fling it has started out as. There's more here, more between them, and she'd been living under the impression that he knew that. He's not insecure, really. He's got a few little pockets, but not here. Never here. He's never doubted her before.

She sits back on her heels, completely ignoring the nakedness between them – and if that isn't a metaphor she's not entirely sure what is. "Are you asking me if I miss you?"

He's not surprised by her bluntness. It's a part of her, like breathing. Cultivated too; years of political pretend grating on her nerves.

She huffs out of breath. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?"

God, what is it with him and stripping down all her barriers. She's 'his' isn't she? As much as she can be considering three-quarters of her life is across the ocean. She just- She can't be here; stateside. She can't. She's not ready. There's too much emotional baggage, too much upheaval for her to want to be back permanently. There's too much darkness.

Maybe someday, but she can't honestly say she's holding her breath.

"Of course you are," she says, her fingers brushing through the hair on his chest. It's not something she's ever really liked in a man, but she finds the feeling both soothing and arousing. She can't go again, not without dying, but he's semi-hard as she kneels between his thighs. Her mind's already shifting. "Of course I miss you."

He puffs out a breath and reaches for her wandering hand. She bats it away, shooting him a bit of a glare. His hand hangs there for a moment as he watches her. She watches back, her hand still sliding down his body until she's got him in her fist. His hips tilt, subtly, but since her hand is right there, she can feel it.

"You think this is all we are?" she asks, deliberately dropping her voice. It's a two-purpose thing really, because Jack's just down the hall and they really do need to keep it down. There are no locks on the doors, after all, and anything from an odd sound to an outright nightmare could send Jack scurrying into the room.

He hasn't asked many questions, Jack, but she's pretty sure neither of them wants to even contemplate the questions he'd ask if Jack found them right now.

"You think I travelled across  _continents_  just for this?"

His hand rises to her hair, fists at the bottom of her scalp. She knows he's squeezing, but can't feel it. He's not tugging. "You could."

That hurts. A lot. A shocking amount, really. They've never talked about what 'mine' and 'yours' really means. She hasn't really taken it to mean a relationship. Not really. Not with continents between them. She can't really say she's felt like she's had the right to go out and find someone else to scratch this itch.

Not that she's scratching an itch here.

There's emotion wrapped up in this, probably more than he even knows. She's not going to tell him, she can't ask that of him. She's not ready to come back and she's pretty sure that  _any_  emotion on his part will have her packing her bags in London before she's even left this time around.

Except.

She's also had a lot more time. She's been invested in him for a lot longer than he's been invested in her. He's not where she is, she knows that.

"Did it feel like it?" she asks, shuffling back a little. She gets her hand moving now, sliding up and down. She feels the way he's hardening in her palm. "Did it feel like I was just here for this, Aaron?"

His eyes are dark and fixed on hers as he reaches for her. "Emily."

She dodges him, pushing in so she can get her mouth on her collarbone. His hands ghost along her shoulders, down her arms as she heads down his chest. She stops just above his heart, presses her teeth into his skin. She bites, licks, sucks, leaves a heck of a mark before she raises her head.

"Am I yours?" She trails her mouth down, content with the red bruise already on his chest. It's a good solid mark. It'll be pretty shades of purple in the morning.

His hand cards through her hair, watching her face. He's unsure, she's surprised to see, but it doesn't deter her as she skirts his belly button. Her hand hasn't stopped moving and he's hardening slowly in her palm. She lets her eyes flutter shut as she gets closer to him, as she feels her hand brush her own cheek with every pull. "Tell me."

His chest is rising faster now, his palm gently cupping her head. She'll change that, though he's been so reluctant before. Thing is, she has a point to prove, and she is going to make him.

She hovers over him, aware her breath is fanning over the tip with her every exhale. "Aaron."

"Yes," he says and there's a gentle nudge at the back of her head. Yeah, he's going to have to do better than that.

She keeps her hand moving, not nearly enough pressure, and definitely not fast enough. She presses her lips to the head, relaxing as she lowers her mouth enough to envelop the tip. His breath hitches, his fingers tense and she's pretty sure the thunk she hears is his head hitting the headboard.

Because it's about trust. It's about him and her and everything between them. It's always more than this, it's always been more than this to her. From that first time, the sting of rejection and having to pull herself back together the next morning to be able to actually leave. Then the second time, snatched moments, a drive to fill her memory with them for when she's not here. There's less desperation in her now, less of a grab the moment and more about  _them_.

Them.

She slides her head up, releasing him, biting her cheek against the unconscious bereft noise he makes. She's discovered that this is where all the emotion is, that the man so tightly harnessed outside of the bedroom can come so utterly undone within it. She's loud, but he can certainly compete.

So she nudges her head back against the hand tangled in her hair. "Aaron. Am I yours?"

He looks down, jaw tense. She's not teasing, though she can see how he'd think that. Her face, however, has no artifice in it, no trace of the mischief necessary for a tease. "Yes."

She pushes her head into his hand again. His face transforms as he realizes what she wants, his other hand sliding up her neck. She feels the way he lifts her hair of her nape, feels the cold air of his apartment drift across her skin. Then he's guiding her mouth back to him.

He's gentle at first, polite, right up until she gets her teeth on him. It's barely a graze but his wrists tense reflexively and shove her down harder. She doesn't gag. She'd taught herself not to early, like a party trick back in her wild child rebellious days. She relaxes her jaw, lets him push and push and push until he's groaning at just how much she can take.

His rhythm is fast and rough after that, making her sloppy. She's making such a mess of him, can't seem to make him slow down, give her a moment to clean him up and she definitely doesn't try and wrestle the control from his hands. There's a pleasurable pain that comes from the way he tugs on her hair and her hands brace against the base of him. She knows when it's coming, can feel the way his thighs tense and his stomach trembles.

"Emily-"

This time when he tugs her up, she fights him, stops her head despite the yank on her hair with just his head in her mouth. Her eyes dart up to meet his, determination and challenge in her eyes.

"Jesus, Emily, I-"

He's tugging again, but she refuses. She's going to do this,  _wants_  to do this. She sucks, hard, and his hips arch as his hands slam her down. He's so deep that she has a hard time swallowing but she does what she can, licking to clean him up as his hands go lax. Her hair's probably a mess, mouth so very swollen but she does not care.

She kisses her way up, presses her mouth to his despite his little flinch. He's not the biggest fan of his own taste then.

She does not care.

"I am yours," she says when they part, shifting as he wraps his arms around her. She shifts for him, straddling his legs as he brings them together, muscling herself in close. Her mouth is at his ear, her hands in his hair. "Only yours. I miss you every day, Aaron. Every day. I  _miss_  you."

He shuffles them down as she continues to mutter in his ear, how she's his, how she's here, how she's flown across continents on a whim because  _he is here_. He falls asleep like that, with her sprawled over his body, one hand against her neck, the other against her lower back.

It takes her longer though, her mind spinning. She's just more open, she tells herself. She's just been through so much more, has accepted friends, relationships, has relied on them better than he does. She can tell him that she's here, that she damn well isn't going anywhere.

And she can fool herself into believing that she doesn't need to hear it back.

That he doesn't need to tell her.

Even as it breaks her heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a shocking amount of fun writing this one. There's two neat little storylines going on here that I'm kind of weaving together and it's great when I can use them both at the same time, plus wrap it up in some smut.


End file.
